Occam's Razor
by doctorkaitlyn
Summary: "The answer with the fewest assumptions is usually the correct one."  Daryl Dixon overlooks this statement when he goes on a quest to figure out why Glenn's hair smells so damn good.   Rated for language and mild sexual themes


**Author's Note:** Because not every story can be angsty and terrifying, here's some fun. :D Where the idea came from, I don't know, but that isn't totally uncommon. R&R would be splendid. xo.

**Occam's Razor.**

The apocalypse had started four weeks ago, he'd been sleeping with Glenn for half that time and somehow, in ways that Daryl didn't understand, the kid's hair still smelled fucking amazing. Even long after the shampoo from the CDC should have worn off, it continued to smell wonderful. In addition to that, it didn't seem to get greasy which was a problem Daryl unfortunately knew all too well.

(Not that Glenn seemed to mind, he reminded himself. A little muck and grime never seemed to stop him.)

But that wasn't the point. The point was that, for all intents and purposes, it simply couldn't be _possible._ For a day, Daryl had convinced himself that it was just a natural thing, that Glenn had just been born with naturally good hair. However, that belief had been shattered when, that very night, their makeshift camp on the side of the road had been attacked by a small group of Walkers. Out of the corner of his eye, Daryl had seen Glenn slam his trusty baseball bat into the skull of a female 'geek', splattering skull fragments and gore over every nearby surface, including his own face. Daryl knew that the smell of squashed brain wasn't something that just washed off of you; it freaking lingered, no matter how many times you dunked your head in the nearby river. He had done just that later that evening, once all the Walkers were dead and everyone was accounted for. Even after he nearly drowned himself however, the stink of gore and sweat still clung to him like burrs to a dog.

Later that night (or, technically morning, Daryl supposed), just before the sun began peeking above the horizon, Glenn had slid into his tent, still trembling slightly. When Daryl had run his mouth over Glenn's neck, making him shake in an entirely different manner, none of that godawful smell had stuck around. Instead, he could very faintly smell coconut or vanilla or some other plant that he couldn't remember the name of. It was a kind of girly smell but it wasn't entirely unpleasant; it actually made him feel quite content with the whole situation.

It was only afterwards, lying bare-chested, listening to Glenn's light breathing as he finally slept, that another idea appeared in Daryl's mind. It was a little ridiculous but then again, the notion of the dead becoming reanimated had been completely absurd a month ago, so he decided that it wasn't too out of left field to think that Glenn had been borrowing one of the ladies' perfume and using it on his head. It didn't explain the lack of grease but the only other option Daryl had was that the kid was a fucking wizard or something. The thought briefly occurred to him to just _ask_ the kid but he wasn't sure how to word the damn question without sounding like a complete and utter dumbass.

_So Glenn, why does your hair smell so fucking good?_

What a stupid question. Besides, if Glenn _was_ stealing one of the girl's perfumes, he would probably be too damn embarrassed to admit to it. Daryl would just have to catch him in the act.

This proved to be harder than he had expected. Even though they spent practically every night together, him and Glenn weren't actually together very often in the daytime. They were both too busy with their respective tasks and duties and there simply wasn't a way that Daryl could blow off a hunting trip to figure out why Glenn smelled good. When he came back a day later, lugging a few rabbits, Glenn's hair was positively shining in the sun, much like the grin on his face when he saw that Daryl had brought back food for the next few days.

That night, as the group crowded around their small fire to eat, Daryl decided to do some investigating. As he tended the meat, handing out the strips as they cooked, he discreetly sniffed to see if any of the women were wearing perfume. Although he caught the scent of something fruity on Lori's wrist, he was almost positive that it was an unfamiliar smell.

Despite this, he figured that it was probably a good idea to confirm, just in case he'd forgotten. The best way to do that was to bury his face in Glenn's hair to mask the rather compromising noises he was making. When he came back to his senses, he realized that whatever the hell Glenn's hair smelled like, it wasn't fruit.

The only thing left to do was to follow him and although the Lord knew just how creepy that thought sounded in Daryl's mind, it was a necessary one. Such a trivial thought shouldn't have been stuck in his brain but he _had_ to know now. The next night, they made camp just up the road from a small pond. Daryl watched as the women and children went off to get washed up, followed by most of the men. Finally, as the day began to approach dusk, Glenn slipped off on his own, snatching his backpack and leaving before anyone could say anything. When he was sure that he wouldn't be missed, he left as well, setting off just inside the line of trees that eventually skirted the pond. He had never used his hunting and tracking skills for such a weird purpose but nonetheless, he was glad he had them.

When he finally reached the pond, he was met with the sight of Glenn standing shirtless, his back to him. He had rolled his jeans up to his knees and was standing ankle deep in the pond. The baseball cap was sitting on shore (thank God; Daryl _hated_ that fuckin' thing) and Glenn had both of his hands buried in his hair, lathering up the-

Of course. Of fucking course. What was that quote Daryl had heard one time on a movie or something; _the answer with the fewest assumptions was usually the correct one._ He didn't have a clue where it was from but he felt like an absolute idiot. All this time, he had been completely overlooking the obvious answer as to why Glenn's hair smelled so damn good.

Shampoo. He had no idea where the kid had gotten it from but, from the luxuriant suds running down his wrists, he obviously must have had quite a stockpile of it. Biting back laughter, Daryl stepped out of the cover of the trees, setting his crossbow gently beside the pond.

"Didn't your momma ever teach you to share?" At the sound of Daryl's voice, Glenn jumped like the water had suddenly been electrified. When he spun around, Daryl couldn't help but burst out laughing; the kid looked like he'd been caught stealing out of the cookie jar.

"Jesus Christ Daryl, talk about scaring the hell out of me!" Turning a rather comical shade of red, he quickly ducked down, rinsing the suds off of his hands and out of his hair. Daryl wanted to say something but for the moment, he was far too entranced with the many rather filthy thoughts running through his head. Glenn had _no _idea just what he did to him, that was for sure.

"Where'd you even get that?" he finally managed to spit out once Glenn had finished cleaning his hair. Still blushing, Glenn reached into his bag and tossed over a mini bottle of shampoo, one of those ones you stole from hotels. Sure enough, when Daryl glanced at the label, it still bore the embossed logo of one of those motel chains that stretched across the entire country.

"My dad used to go on a lot of business trips." When Daryl glanced back, Glenn had his hands stuck into his pockets, still staring down at the ground. "And he always used to bring these back with him and he never used them so my mom would always give them to me. Christ, I must have fifteen of those still in my backpack." Daryl tossed the bottle back before lifting his own shirt off, dropping it to the ground beside his bow.

God, he didn't think he would ever get tired of the way Glenn's eyes bugged out of his head when he liked what he saw.

"Do you have any other stuff?" he casually asked, working on his belt, resisting the urge to smirk. "Like any of that Axe shit?" Glenn immediately dove into his backpack, fumbling with the button of his jeans with his other. After a few seconds, he eventually pulled up another small bottle with some kind of blue gel inside it.

"You won't tell anyone about this, will you?" he asked, biting his lip quickly. Daryl snorted, letting his jeans drop to the ground before he stepped into the pond, relishing the feeling of the cold water against his warm skin.

"'Course not. It ain't none of my business if you want to keep your hair clean. Actually works out in my favor if I don't talk." He quickly splashed water on his face, scrubbing away some of the dirt that had taken up residence in his stubble. When he glanced back up, Glenn was standing there, eyes locked on Daryl. Apparently his momma hadn't told him that it wasn't polite to stare either.

"You gonna keep gawking at me or you gonna let me use some of that?" Glenn finally snapped out of his damn trance, finally finishing undoing his jeans. By the time he stepped in the water, he was wearing a smirk that rather reminded Daryl of his own. Christ, he was wearing off on the kid.

"One stipulation," he said. Daryl raised an eyebrow and in response, Glenn squeezed some of the blue gel into his own hands before tossing the bottle back on shore. Glenn's hands started at his shoulders and he shut his eyes, trying to keep his breathing steady as they wandered lower and lower.

He remembered, out of the blue, what that quote had been from. He'd seen it on a medical show of some kind; Occam's Razor, that was what it was called.

Not that it was important any more, especially at that specific moment in time.

When they arrived back in camp later, just as the sun finally dropped below the horizon, he had to hide his smirk at the surprised looks he was getting. No one seemed to notice Glenn's shiny hair but all of them had zeroed in on the fact that, for the first time since the CDC, Daryl Dixon was actually _clean._ His hair no longer sat in a greasy clump on top of his head. For that matter, his face wasn't streaked with dirt anymore. His skin was clearly visible. When he sat down beside the fire, he even heard Dale take a discreet sniff, inhaling the new 'mountain fresh scent' (whatever the fuck that meant) that clung to his skin. When he could risk it, he sent a meaningful glance at Glenn across the fire; in response, Glenn snorted, which he quickly turned into a cough. Daryl smirked again, trying his hardest not to laugh at the bewildered glances he was getting.

This was a secret that was _definitely_ worth keeping.

**Author's Note:** I'm not sure why, in all my stories, Daryl has such a vendetta against Glenn's hats. It's a recurring theme for me. :)


End file.
